


the road's gonna end on me

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, Jemma takes a level in badass, Mild Depiction of Violence, Mild Gore, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:08:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant Ward hurts Jemma Simmons in the name of HYDRA. Cue training montage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the road's gonna end on me

**Author's Note:**

> Love to [Shruti](http://leopoldfitz.tumblr.com/) for helping this be less of a trainwreck. 
> 
> Title from Warrior by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

"Everyone out."

They've been waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to assure them with bashful-quick lips that she is fine. 

She doesn't have anything to offer them today. 

"I want to talk to May alone."

In the periphery of the stream of dead space she's staring at, she sees May's glance towards Coulson, and imagines his glance towards her. 

Fitz and Trip (they've taken to calling him Trip now) flank her on either side. They're not close enough to touch but she feels the pressure emanating towards her from both sides like twin sources of magnetic repulsion. Skye watches from across the room, the force of her Sad Eyes just as oppressive. Jemma’s arms are braced on either side of her, hands on the lab table where she sits, holding them all off.

“Jemma, don’t—” Fitz starts, and her chin turns toward him sharply. She doesn’t let herself look.

“Alone,” she repeats.

There’s a beat before Coulson says, “You heard her,” and they all shuffle out.

May steps forward, measured clicks of boot to floor, until she’s directly in front of Jemma. She waits for the younger woman to speak.

“I want you to train me.”

“Okay,” May says automatically, like she was expecting it. Jemma looks up at her sharply, the first person she’d looked in the eyes since it happened.

“Okay?” she repeats. “You don’t think that I should stick to science? That I should keep doing what I’m good at?”

“I think you should keep being a scientist. I think you should also do this, if you want to,” May says reasonably. “The world has changed, Jemma. _Our_ world has changed. So we change along with it.”

“People change,” Jemma says softly.

“Yes, but there’s a difference between genuine change and changing appearances.”

Ward has changed appearances.

Effectively, Jemma has to think of him as two different entities. The one who was her friend, and the one who knifed her today. The one who saved her from certain death, and the one who muttered poisoned words in her ears as he helped her drop to the floor.

The first version of Ward is gone, has left a well inside of her that rage is filling, pooling like spilt blood.

“When can we start?”

“When your wound has healed. And after you’ve talked to Coulson about it.”

“I’m not going to ask Coulson’s permission, May.”

May tilts her head and bunches one side of her mouth in disapproval.

“SHIELD is gone,” Jemma continues. “Coulson is still our leader, but he’s shut me down too many times. This has to happen, whether he likes it or not.”

“Just go talk to him. You might be surprised by what he says,” May says, but it seems to be an unfinished thought, the end of which might be _or he’s still a bag of cats._

Jemma nods once. “Thank you, May.”

May opens her mouth like she might say something, but just sighs and nods once in response, turning and leaving Jemma in the lab alone to think.

 

 

 

“May says she’s willing to train me,” Jemma starts.

Coulson meets her eyes in surprise. They’re in his office on the Bus. Even though there’s plenty of room at Providence to spread out, they all prefer it here. They’ve gotten comfortable in their compartments.

“That’s probably wise,” he says slowly, like he’s not sure what to say. And that terrifies her. “It’ll give May something to focus on, at least.”

Jemma pretends not to know what that means. “I will make sure it doesn’t interfere with my work,” she continues, with as much level-headedness as she can muster. She’s barely holding down the edges. “Or at least whatever is left of my work.”

Coulson tenses. “It’s difficult for all of us, Jemma.”

“He has all of my research. Not just things about you and Skye. He has everything,” she tells the floor.

Coulson doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. “Maybe this will be good for you too, then,” he offers half-heartedly. She fights the urge to clench her fists.

“I’m certain it will be,” she says tightly, and turns on her heels, more disappointed than before.

 

 

 

 

She is rabid with fury when they carry her in. May on one side, Coulson on the other, heaving her up onto the lab table, and she is _screaming_. Not out of pain. Well, not out of physical pain. The wound is incapacitating but not life-threatening. The mercy of sharp knives is the ease through which they cut through the skin and muscle. Her shoulder thanks him.

She, however, curses him.

Fitz rushes forward to try and take care of the wound but she is fighting too much (it doesn’t matter anyway, as Fitz doesn’t know what he’s doing; he just wants to be close). They try to keep her down on the table but she just keeps sitting up, pushing more of her own blood out with every movement, and she lets it pulse and smear.

Suddenly she calms, chest heaving, head going back to scrutinize the ceiling. The pain is a dull roar. She doesn’t know why she stopped screaming, nor can she remember when she started. She slides off the table and grabs some things from the med kit while everyone watches in shock. She doesn’t take X-rays, or try to assess how deep the damage is. There is no analysis in her. They stare as she cleans herself up, watch every wring of the blood-soaked rag and every shaking stitch. She sprays it with a liquid sealant she had invented, the one that earned her Level 3. And then she drops the can.

Fitz’s shaking hands rifle through a drawer, finding their object after a few seconds of pilfering jitters. He produces a pill bottle.

“No.”

“Jemma—”

“No,” she hisses. “I don’t want it.”

She will not step numbly away; she will not remove herself from the pain. She needs to feel every fission of it within her, burning her cell to cell, until she can see clearly.

There is suddenly a prick in the back of her neck; a noise of betrayal leaves her voice like a chunk of flesh leaves between sharp teeth, and hands guide her downwards. Her last waking moments see Coulson, syringe in hand.

 

 

 

 

The sealant does wonders to trick May into thinking she’s remarkably healed. Actually, Jemma doesn’t know if it’s a successful trick, or if May knows that Jemma will ignore her wound regardless. She feels the burn within her too strongly; she is achingly present within it, and it will consume until she’s satisfied.

She needs this.

May is aggressive with her. There isn’t much to do at Providence; May isn’t so much avoiding Coulson as choosing not to see him, while Jemma is eager to avoid basically everyone on the team. So they work all day.

It’s hard work, but May’s a good teacher. Patient yet demanding, exactly what she needs.

“I’m impressed,” May says at one point. “You’re picking this up faster than I expected.”

Jemma tries not to beam. The impulse doesn’t fit in with the dark pit constantly sitting in her chest. But the part of her that still craves approval is suddenly fed after weeks of hunger, and the result is a grin. “This feels _good_ ,” she remarks. And it does. It’s not that she isn’t still the awkward, uncertain girl she was before. But she is determined. She feels settled within her body; her feet feel sure with each step. She’s too distracted by her purpose to question her movements. It’s the first time she’s felt okay since SHIELD fell.

May quirks a smile for a moment, but it fades. “I’m sorry,” she says, “that none of us here there when it happened.”

Jemma’s smile leaves too. “There was no reason for anyone to be there. No one knew that was going to happen,” she says evenly. But it’s a voice weighted with lead that she puts on, heavy on her tongue, held up unwillingly by her shoulders.

“Even so. If we had been with you, Jemma,” May says seriously, “He wouldn’t have had the chance to touch you.” _I would’ve put him down in a second_ is what she doesn’t say.

Jemma nods, grateful. If she knows anything, it’s that everyone left on the team still loves each other. Maybe she needs to remind herself of that a little more.

“Now, back up,” May says, satisfied. “Let me show you the roundhouse.”

 

 

 

They find her slumped against the wall, limp in shock and blood loss. Skye is wailing, still locked into the room, terrified by the silence.

May is the first one there.

“ _Let me out_ ,” Skye shrieks, waterlogged.

“Stand back, Skye,” May says loudly, pauses for a moment, and then shoots the lock thrice. The door bursts open and Skye flings herself towards May, clutching her.

“Ward is…” she breathes, hysterical, “Ward…” but then she notices the girl on the floor. The both crouch down quickly. “Jemma?”

Her eyelids are fluttering; she is awake to an extent but the only real evidence is the soundless move of her lips and her white-knuckled clench on the knife. They roll her over and see the blood.

“What happened?” Coulson booms, running up, Fitz and Trip just behind. Skye clutches her knees, tears rolling fast.

“We’ve been compromised,” May says darkly, “And Simmons’ is hurt. We need to get her to the lab _now_.”

“Jemma?” Fitz says, horrified. He shoves Skye out of the way for better access and she reels back on her ass, defeated and ashamed. “Jemma,” he says, but she can’t see him. Her face is very cold and her skin is very soft.

“Ward,” she breathes, and the knife thrusts forward, missing Fitz narrowly. He tries to pry it out of her hands and she shrieks angrily. And doesn’t stop.

Coulson pushes Fitz out of the way and he and May pick her up. And so starts the devil’s procession: Jemma writhing in blind fury; Skye following in dishonor behind, repeating a mantra ( _Ward is HYDRA, Ward is HYDRA_ ); and the boys running interference, opening doors and reeling.

(Later, Koenig shits himself over the damage Skye did to the inside of the door, to the blood Jemma left on the ground; but one hard look from Coulson shuts him up pretty quick.)

 

 

 

 

Funnily enough, she does not dream of the attack.

Whatever the trauma is, evidently it exited her body along with all the screaming. Instead she dreams of falling. She dreams of the headache so hopeless she’s glad to burst, the shakes that rattle her consciousness, the wind punishing her wasted body. And him, flying over her, steady as ever. Blank expression. The knife is useless in her hand; she grips it tightly but the blade is meaningless against the wind, against his parachute. There’s no use waiting for him to reach out.

She wakes, breathless, thrashing, gripping the sheet in her knife-hand. Her wound throbs along with her pulse.

She wants to roll her eyes. _I’ll catch you if you fall_. What a fucking prick. But she feels so utterly dissatisfied with that notion. Something doesn’t make sense here. Actually, most of it makes no sense.

She hears the four beeps of someone pressing in her code and the door to her bunk slides open. She stares, wide-eyed, until Fitz reveals himself. He looks a bit peaky, like maybe he was dreaming, too. He doesn’t say anything, just sits on the floor next to her bed, hugging his knees and looking at her. She doesn’t know why he doesn’t just get on the bed like usual.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He half-laughs in dry amazement. “You’re asking _me_?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, the winces as her shoulder pulses.

“I think you’re bleeding again.”

She glances down as though she cares. “It’s fine.” The bandage is soaking it up, at least. He looks so apprehensive, and it’s confusing to her.

“It’s just a bit of blood,” she starts to say, but he’s already launched into “I can’t believe this is happening,” so she quiets down and nods for him to speak.

“Everything’s changed,” he says quietly. “Things that were supposed to be constant are suddenly gone. I, uh, I don’t know how to feel about any of this.”

She nods. “Me either,” and her voice betrays the strength of her desire to have something to hold onto.

“People are actively trying to kill us now.” He says _us_ like any injury to her is equally felt by him.

“He wasn’t trying to kill me,” she says automatically.

“He _stabbed_ you.”

“We all know he could’ve killed me if he wanted to. And he should’ve, if he wanted his life to be easier.” He frowns, but she keeps going. “Because now I’m not going to stop until I can get some answers.”

There is silence for a long moment. “I want you to know,” he says, gulping, “that the thought of that literally terrifies me.”

She’s a little proud of him for admitting so. “It terrifies me too,” she says.

He pulls up on his knees, coming closer to where she sits against the headboard, staring up into her eyes. “Something’s changed in you, too,” he says, as though he’s just uncovered it.

She fights the urge to say _sorry_ , but it slips out anyway.

“Don’t be,” he responds. “It’s alright. I still love you,” he shrugs.

She smiles.

 

 

 

 

_Things she doesn’t understand:_

1\. She’s pressed to the wall in surprise at his hell-bound expression; he stalks close and presses the knife in with a jolt; and

2\. She doesn’t even see it coming in her periphery, just feels the thrust and tear, hears the scream rip from her throat, peers down and sees the knife sticking out of her where he left it; but

3\. He doesn’t move; he stands there with a hard expression and watches as her shaking hand reaches for the knife, pulls it out in tandem with a sob; and

4\. His hands go to hers, and she wants to look away, to prevent herself from seeing the intent to harm her within him, but she can’t; all she can see is the vacuum of his eyes, devoid of sense and feeling; and

5\. He guides her wielding hand to his gut and lets go, leaving her hovering there, seeming to wait for her action; so she thrusts in with as much power as she can muster; and

6\. He barely reacts; as she dissolves into sobs he helps her slide to the floor, leaning her back against the wall, before he gets up, pulls the knife out with a low grunt and tosses it to the side; and

7\. He walks away. She watches him go without really seeing, dragging herself with one arm a few feet forward to grab the weapon he left behind and claim it as her own.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                      

Skye has passed the doorway to the gym at least ten times now. May cocks an eyebrow and says nothing, so Jemma turns.

“Hello, Skye.”

Skye starts from where she’s peeking in the doorway. She enters the room eagerly. “Oh, hey!” She happens to be wearing her workout gear. “What are you guys doing in here?”

“May’s been training me,” Jemma says kindly, as though Skye didn’t know that already.

“Oh, that’s cool. That’s super cool.”

“Jemma’s doing very well,” May offers.

“I bet. Yeah. You’ll probably pass me up soon. I haven’t trained since…” She swallows. “Well, for a while.”

On any other people, this act would be working. Skye is very good at getting what she wants, and the two women before her can appreciate her craft. Jemma takes pity, because she doesn’t mind either way.

“You should train with us!” She offers. “If it’s alright with May, of course.”

Skye turns to May with the puppy dog eyes in full force.

“I have no problem with it,” May says evenly, although there’s a hint of a grin gracing her face.

“Really? _Guys_ ,” she coos.

And suddenly they were a trio.

(After they’re done for the day, Skye comes to Jemma’s bunk. “So I know that was pathetic. But I can’t trust anything he taught me. Not until I track him down and claw the truth out of him.”

“Oh, are you going after him, too?”

Skye grins.)

 

 

 

 

She was actually heading to the storage closet Skye was stuck in. If she had waited five minutes, if she had indulged Fitz’s sniping at Trip rather than leaving the room in protest, Ward would’ve escaped without a hitch.

But she makes a weak excuse to find some more medical gauze to be away from their gazes. She doesn’t move with any urgency – at least, until she hears Skye.

For her part, Skye sounds more furious than scared. Jemma can hear her shouts echoing, bouncing around the hallway, so she speeds up. Ward has a hand on the door, but he’s not moving. Between a few flaying curses, Jemma hears him speak: “I’m sorry.”

“ _Traitor_ ,” Jemma hears Skye bay, wild, and the door rumbles as though she’s throwing herself against it.

“Ward?” Jemma says, alarmed. He turns in an instant, and his eyes tell her everything.

She backs against the wall.

 

 

 

 

 

Her dreams change a bit. Sometimes Ward is gone from them. But now everyone else is falling with her. No one’s panicking, no one’s sick like she was. But they’re all falling, wracked against the wind for hours upon hours, drifting away and coming back together, and it’s endless. Sometimes Ward floats above them, and sometimes he’s there alongside them. But still nobody catches her.

When she wakes, she spies the knife on her bedside table.

Jemma’s come to expect Fitz in as soon as she wakes. He’s told her that she’s quite a restless dreamer. He doesn’t comment on her staring at the knife, just takes a seat on the floor against her bed.

“So I’ve apologized to Trip.” She doesn’t comment, so he continues. “I think part of me was jealous because you’re my best friend and he was your new friend. And part of me didn’t want him to take Ward’s place. So basically all of me was irritated.”

She gives him a strange smile, both amused and intrigued.

“What?” he asks of her expression.

“You come in here like it’s therapy,” she murmurs. “You’re quite honest at three in the morning.”

“I just figured…I don’t know what you dream about. But you probably don’t want to think about it, so I’ll just talk about whatever’s in my head,” he explains simply.

She doesn’t know how to respond with anything other than a smile, so she changes topics. “You didn’t want him to take Ward’s place?”

“No, because I already had a fit, specialist mate. And he betrayed us. And stabbed you. And it’s much easier to have the hole he left as a reminder to be angry with him. It makes me work harder.”

She thumbs the knife. That makes sense.

“But it’s not Trip’s fault. He’s a nice guy,” Fitz goes on, before noticing her ministrations with the weapon. “You know you almost got me with that thing, right?”

“What?”

“When we found you in the hallway, you almost—” and he thrusts his arm forward.

“Sorry, love,” she says absently, trying to remember the full event.

“It’s alright,” he says with a good-natured smile. “I still love you.”

 

 

 

 

May usually has them fight against each other. It took a while to get used to the idea; their first few sparring sessions ended in giggles between them and an exasperated-looking May (as exasperated as May could look, anyway). But after a while they figured out how to get the feel of it, to push aside identity and imagine each other as the enemy.

“Manscaping,” Jemma chokes out. Skye’s thighs are wrapped around her neck and it’s getting a little hard to breathe.

From off the side, Jemma hears May huff a laugh at the safeword.

Skye disengages immediately. They both fall back on the mat and breathe, staring up at the ceiling.

“Good work, both of you,” May says easily.

“You nearly made me lose consciousness,” Jemma says, but she’s impressed rather than annoyed.

“Hooray,” Skye pants weakly.

They’ve started marking their firsts. First center-target hit. First scissorhold. First knockout. They’re supposed to be pulling their punches a bit, but Jemma tends to forget, riled up in the heat of it. The first time Jemma gifts Skye with a bloody lip, she wears it like a badge of honor and shows it to everyone.

“Trip! Jemma split my lip.”

“Are we happy about this?” He asks, amused.

“Yes! What a badass.”

He shrugs. “That’s tight.”

And Jemma takes an embarrassed bow.

But Jemma feels the same way when Skye accidentally hits too hard; she blooms a bruise over her eye and stands a little straighter. Evidence of strength, of withstanding something. It isn’t much, but she’ll take it.

 

 

 

 

Skye makes a breakthrough. She’s been tapping into NSA and CIA surveillance feeds all over the world looking for traces of Garrett and Ward. It’s been a couple months of fruitless searches; her laptop sitting on the ground running the program and blaring pop music while she sparred with Jemma under May’s careful gaze. But finally, _finally_ they get a partial match on facial recognition in Havana. A change of luck.

Who could’ve guessed Ward’s killer cheekbones would be his downfall?

Actually, Jemma could. Especially since one of his abrasions had scarred quite distinctively, as she had predicted.

Skye’s grin is sinister, killer, as she bears the news. As Coulson starts to go over the plan, Skye’s hand knocks into hers. She sticks her pinky out. Jemma sees it and wraps her own around it, squeezing tightly. It’s time for _something_. Action, answers, payback. Fear sits high and tight in Jemma’s chest, but she is ready. She has to be ready.

“The girls are with me,” May breaks in suddenly.

Coulson sets his jaw. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Agent May, are you sure you don’t want another specialist with you in the--?” Trip starts, but May cuts him off.

“Skye and Simmons have been training hard. In tandem, I think the pair of them could give even you a run for your money, Trip.”

That is an exaggeration. A gross exaggeration. Jemma tries not to let panic set in. She keeps squeezing Skye’s finger.

“Please let us do this,” Skye says, and Jemma realizes what’s happening. May’s giving them the opportunity to get to Ward first. To do with him what they want. She takes a deep breath.

“We’re ready,” Jemma says, raising her chin against the eyes roving over her who are looking for a lie. There is nothing to find.

 

 

 

 

Fitz and Trip watch them as they spar in the loading bay. They seem to have bonded.

May is piloting, so Skye and Jemma are working off the tension on their own. Skye is better at offense, Jemma is better at defense; but the dance is familiar. This is only an exercise in comfort, because they aren’t learning anything.

There is no more preparation to be done.

As they disengage for a break, Fitz approaches her. “Can I talk to you upstairs for a bit?”

He sits on the floor against her bed again, and she joins him this time, not willing to question it. But he’s not speaking. He’s staring forward and thinking very hard.

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, concerned.

“Remember when Ward and I went on that mission in Ossetia?” He doesn’t wait, because he knows she does. “And you told me to be careful, and I told you to stop worrying.”

“Yeah.”

“Please be careful.”

Her eyebrows rise. There is no boy clutching her hand, begging her to stay behind. No demands for accountability to him. Fitz is no tyrant (not that he’d have any power over her if he was), but he has always been terrified for her, even before this Bus.

She smiles at his profile, leans forward and kisses his cheek.

He looks at her now, catches the tinge of surprise on her face. “I think I’ve changed a bit too.”

“It’s okay,” she says, “I still love you.”

 

 

 

 

“It’s a barber shop?”

“It’s a fucking _barber shop_.”

“I feel like this is probably _not_ how the Nazis did it,” Jemma says, uncertain.

“Probably not,” Skye replies.

“Focus up, agents,” Coulson says in their ears.

Jemma shrugs and they move to step inside.

“Can I help you?” The man asks in English, looking them over.

“We’re here for Grant Ward,” Skye says seriously, emphasizing his name.

The man raises an eyebrow.

“Hail HYDRA?” Jemma asks.

“I haven’t seen you two in here before,” and he leers a bit.

“We’re new,” Skye says dryly.

There is a moment of silence as the man considers them; then he moves to flip a switch and a chair sinks into the ground, revealing a staircase.

“Thank you,” Skye says sweetly, and they descend.

“What is this, a fucking cave?” Skye mutters. “Talk about evil mood lighting.”

Jemma shushes her as they approach a soldier at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hail HYDRA!” he shrieks forcefully. Both of the women reel back, eyebrows raised.

“Okay. Cool it, kitten,” Skye says after a moment of confusion. “We’re here to see Ward and Garrett.”

“Nobody sees Garrett below a level six,” the kid says nervously.

“We’re level seven,” Skye challenges easily.

“Well...do you have a badge or something?”

“Do I--?” She looks at Simmons in faux-surprise. “Do I have a _badge_?” She guffaws. “What do you think this is, _SHIELD_?”

“Trust me,” Jemma breaks in, “You don’t want to be the one standing in the way when Ward and Garrett find out we’re here.” It isn’t a lie, so she has no trouble.

“They’re not actually at the base right now,” he says, uncertain.

“We’ll wait,” Skye says haughtily. “Have you got like, a lounge down here or something? We’ve been travelling.”

“Uh,” he says. “This way.” He leads them down the hallway to a room with a couch and a card table littered with papers. “You can wait in here.”

“Thanks,” Jemma mutters. He nods numbly, probably regretting his career choices, and leaves the room.

“Well, that was easy,” Skye says.

“Did you just con your way in?” Coulson asks, sounding like a disapproving dad.

“There’s practically no one here; they must be off doing something terrible right now,” she replies.

“Fitz, are you seeing this?” Jemma asks, adjusting her rigged-up glasses.

“One second...yes,” he replies in her ear.

“Start scanning and recording. I’m going to start looking through the documents.” It’s an amalgam of intel - blueprints of labs, corporate and military headquarters; designs for weapons, some of them Fitz’s; files upon files of character assassinations evaluating weaknesses and looking for potential targets.

“May, Trip: what’s your twenty?” Skye asks.

“The tunnels are full of nerve gas cannisters; it’s taking longer than we thought it would.”

“It’s okay, I think we’ve got a little time before—”

But there are footsteps and an ice-striking voice rumbling down the hall. “What, are we just letting anyone walk in here now, Kaminsky?” they hear Garrett say.

“Shit,” Skye mutters.

Both women pull out their guns and point them towards the door.

_Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe_.

“Shoo,” Garrett says, and turns the handle.

When the door swings open, he has the gall to chuckle at the sight of them. “Well, well, well.” He turns to call over his shoulder. “Grant, get in here.” He turns back to them. “So how’ve you been?”

They decline to answer. She has to keep a handle on herself. She trained for this specific purpose – find Ward, _get_ Ward, whatever that may mean. _So breathe_.

When Ward comes round the corner and sees them, his easy grin slides away.

“You didn’t tell me you were having friends over,” Garrett says.

Ward sighs. “The hacker and the scientist? Looks like Coulson’s scraping the bottom of the barrel,” he says tightly.

Jemma feels the perverse urge to smile at his words. _The scientist_? She gives in. Ward’s jaw clenches at the sight of her. _Good_. She hopes it unsettles him.

“Well, girl-wonders? How is this going to go d--?” Garrett tries to say, but Jemma pivots slightly and sinks two rounds, one in each of his kneecaps. He falls with a huff and a grunt, far less dramatic than Jemma would’ve thought, and it disappoints her a bit.

The echo of the shots reverberates around the room. They don’t have much time now.

 She produces handcuffs and a handkerchief to go around his mouth, but he resists. A swift kick to the face does the job well enough, and he settles down enough for her to restrain him.

“Well, boy wonder? How is this going to go down?” Skye repeats, sinister mirth weighing her tongue.

“I could pull out my gun and shoot both of you faster than you could blink,” Ward says, jaw set.

“First of all, I don’t believe you. You’re not that good. Second of all, even if you could shoot us, I don’t think you will,” Skye reasons.

“And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t yet,” Jemma speaks up. His eyes meet hers for a second and his jaw clenches again. _Good. Remember what you did. Remember_.

“Are you a sleeper?” he asks her, voice strange.

Jemma frowns at him. “No.” She returns to her spot next to Skye.

“Who trained you?”

“May did.”

Ward looks severely put out by this.

“I will admit,” Jemma says, “that your rather _dramatic_ exit did influence my education a bit.” This is a line she rehearsed. She digs into her pocket with her free hand and produces the knife as her punctuation, then peers up at him, looking for a reaction.

His eyes narrow. “What are you doing with that?” There is flash of brotherly concern that has no right to be there.

“You left it behind,” she says carefully. “I wanted it.”

The exchange a long stare, his hard and closed off and hers searching.

“I don’t know what Coulson’s plan here is,” Ward threatens suddenly, “But he made a grave mistake sending you two in here.”

“This is no mistake, Grant,” Skye says, and he flinches at the strange use of his first name. “We asked for this.”

Skye drags a chair away from the table and points to it with her gunned hand. “Sit. We have some questions for you.”

He follows orders resentfully. Garrett squirms against the wall where Jemma left him, heaving breath and bleeding on the floor.

“Would you like to go first?” Skye asks, and Jemma nods nervously.

She holsters her weapon and sidles up, just outside of his reach. She looks down at him and tries to feel superior. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

He doesn’t answer.

She sighs, bunches her lips in disappointment. “Don’t make me threaten you, Grant.” And he flinches again. “We both know I’d rather not.”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want to kill me?” she asks.

“No,” he snarls.

“That’s nice,” she says, genuinely relieved.

“You’re more useful alive,” he says spitefully, tongue swollen with venom. “Your genius will be useful one day. And you motivate Fitz. When we need him to do something, I’ll hold a gun to your head.”

Jemma clenches her jaw, but Skye actually laughs. “You’ll have to get to her first,” she says, her amusement undercut with her threat. Jemma tries to breathe and remember the plan.

She watches him closely. Every spiteful action is more proof: Grant Ward wants to be saved.

She leans in closer now. “Why did you let me stab you back?”

He doesn’t answer, and suddenly she’s furious. She’s not like Skye; she never taught herself how to laugh in the face of absurd cruelty, just to withstand it. She wants to hurt him just to the breaking point, so she can stop, finally stop this whole game and be satisfied with the truth. The anger fills her up and she snarls: “Who cleaned _that_ wound for you, Grant? Who stitched you up?”

He looks away.

_Proof_.

She takes a deep breath. She’s nearly certain now.

“Your turn,” she says to Skye. They trade positions.

She stares at him for a long moment, and Jemma can see her searching for a crack in the armor. “Did you tell Daddy Dearest that you kissed me?” Skye asks, voice low and severe now, nodding her head at Garrett, who is watching with trained eyes.

Ward sighs. “No.”

Garrett struggles against his restraints. Skye is an extraneous factor he had not considered. Of course, it’s a lie. Skye kissed him. But he goes along with it. _The only proof they need_.

Skye’s winning smile is beatific. They’ve succeeded. She looks to Jemma.

“It’s adorable,” Jemma murmurs.

“The tin man has a heart after all,” Skye breathes, head-rushed with the win. Skye looks into his eyes for a long moment, then unholsters her weapon and fires, in one smooth movement, into Garrett’s chest.

Of course, Skye had been holding an ICER the whole time, but it is the thought that counts.

“Skye? Simmons?” Coulson barks anxiously. “What’s happening?”

“We were right,” Jemma calls, dropping her weapon and exhaling in intense relief.

“We might be able to just walk out of here,” Ward starts, but Skye and Simmons are shaking their heads.

“This whole compound is coming down, Ward,” Skye says.

“Today,” Jemma finishes.

“Status report, _now_ ,” Coulson demands.

“Jemma and I believed Ward was on our side, so we tricked you into letting us get in here alone with him and figure it out ourselves. I’m sorry, _please don’t ground us_.”

“You’re going to wish you were grounded when I get through with all of you,” Coulson growls.

“Okay, _dad_.”

“Trip, what’s your twenty?” Simmons asks. There’s no answer. “May?”

Suddenly from outside they hear commotion and a shout: “ _CODE BLUE_.”

Skye and Jemma turn to Ward. “What’s code blue?”

“Hostiles,” he responds.

Jemma relaxes. “Ah, that’ll be them.”

“Took long enough,” Skye says.

"Shouldn’t we go help? There have to be at least thirty men out there."

Ward received twin looks of disgust.

"Right. It's May," he corrects himself.

"Trip, we've got Garrett stunned and hogtied here if you want to take some demoralizing selfies with him," Skye says into comms.

"It would be my pleasure," he says between gunshots.

Ward side-eyes Jemma. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

She doesn’t know how to answer that without releasing a flood, so she just meets his eyes and nods. She has to keep her head above water. At least until they get back to the Bus.

Ward turns to Skye. “Are _you_ okay?” he asks, less gently.

“Not now, idiot,” Skye says breezily, rolling her eyes.

It only takes another moment until silence rings through the compound.

May and Tripp enter after a moment, not a hair out of place. 

“Here you go, buddy,” Skye says to Trip, seeming to be in a good mood.

"Yes," Trip sighs on sight of Garrett, "this is what I've been dreaming of."

 

 

 

 

Coulson is livid. They get a long chewing out, the whole group of them. They are all guilty of something: Ward, for trying to pull a triple agent op all on his own; Skye and Jemma for lying about their intentions; May for implicitly helping them; and Trip for dropping Garrett a few too many times as they were carrying him out to the plane.

(Fitz is the only one not in trouble, and by his expression Jemma could tell he felt a bit left out.)

 

 

 

"We should talk about what happened. Probably."

Ward looks so intensely uncomfortable she wants to laugh.

"You stabbed me," she says.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I was just trying to protect everyone."

"You have a funny definition of the word _protect_ , but I believe you."

"Really, Jemma. You know I would do anything to take care of you and Fitz and Skye. I thought the best way to do that was to go in after Garrett. I had to make sure the team was safe.”

“You should’ve talked to Coulson about your plan and coordinated with us so you had backup. You were reckless, not only with your body, which _I_ have to keep _sewing up_ , but with your name, because you let us believe you were the bad guy for so long,” she sighs. “You don’t deserve any of that.”

He looks down to the floor.

“You also shouldn’t have stabbed me,” she tosses in for good measure.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He sighs.

“You gathered a lot of good intel, yes. We shut down a HYDRA base and we know the locations of so many others. We have details about who is a member and who is a target. And we have Garrett in custody. That’s all good work - _valuable_ work. But you don’t get to make a decision like that. Besides: no one decides what I think of you except for me. I haven’t given you permission to try and change my perception of you. So don’t try again,” she finishes.

He smiles a little.

“So a lot’s changed since you’ve been gone,” she starts in, upbeat. “Fitz and Trip are friends now. I’ve been training with May and Skye--oh! You should see how hard I can punch now! I will demonstrate on your face.”

He smiles wider.

“Fair enough.”

 

 

 

(“Is it messed up that I’m quite pleased you shot Garrett in the kneecaps?” Fitz asks absently from the end of her bed.

“Maybe,” she says, “But it’s alright. I still love you.”)


End file.
